


I'm Tired, You're Lonely

by anD_nOw_tHe_wEaThEr (CryMeARiver3465)



Category: Keeper of the Lost Cities Series - Shannon Messenger
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cassius Sencen's A+ Parenting, Child Abuse, Dex Dizznee is a good bro, F/M, Fitz Vacker is a good bro, Homelessness, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Keefe Sencen Needs a hug, Long Bus Rides, Man i like that tag, No Smut, Platonic Soulmates, Romantic Soulmates, Sophie Foster Needs a Hug, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, The Author Regrets Nothing, Unintentional Self Harm, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-19 12:15:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29999208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CryMeARiver3465/pseuds/anD_nOw_tHe_wEaThEr
Summary: Where's the obvious light?Because I am tired and you're lonelyScreaming babe console meAnd I'd stop it if onlyOur hearts didn't break so slowlySophie Foster did not have a soulmate. Everyone else did.Keefe Sencen did not want a soulmate. He would only hurt them.~~Or: How to find your soulmate when you don't think you have one to begin with, the Sophie Foster way; and how to realize that you are more than your father told you you were and find someone who loves you truly, the Keefe Sencen way.
Relationships: Cassius/Gisela, Edaline Ruewen/Grady Ruewen, Sophie Foster & Everyone, Sophie Foster/Keefe Sencen
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	I'm Tired, You're Lonely

**Author's Note:**

> The song title is from a BEAUTIFUL song called "I'm Tired, You're Lonely" by Liza Anne. I one-hundred-and-ten percent recommend you listen!
> 
> This is an EXTREMELY angsty fic, cause I am an extremely angsty writer. Remember to **HEED THE TAGS AND TWS.**
> 
> I'm gonna add an extra TW right here for: **stongly implied/referenced child abuse, and unintentional self-harm in one scene.** Stay safe, babies!
> 
> This was born out of personal need for more Keefoster soulmate aus. Soulmate aus are really among my favorite tropes. Like, if done correctly, they're soooo good. I'm not going to give myself airs and say that I've done it correctly here, cause that would be rude and self-centered, but when one does it correctly, they just make my heart sing. However, this fandom has decided that Sokeefe gets no soulmate aus, really. I've found a couple, sure, but I WANT AO3 TO HAVE PAGES AND PAGES!!!! I want to drown myself in these. Honestly. Just yes. Come on. Let's step up the game! I'll start. ahem. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy SOULMATES, Keefoster style!

Sophie Foster did not have a soulmate. 

No marks graced her skin. No cuts appeared randomly, no bruises other than her own. She was never assaulted by seemingly random bouts of unexplainable pain. Her dreams were all her own. Her thoughts were the only ones she could hear. The world was in every color. No doodles appeared on her arms. No words lined her body. No music ever got stuck in her head, unless it was of her own doing. She never found herself singing songs she did not know. No red string jerked her around like a puppet of someone else. No permanent mood ring glimmered with feelings that were not her own. 

Sophie Foster did not have a soulmate. Everyone else did. 

The boys called her “Psycho,” and the girls whispered about her. She could not walk down the halls without hearing their voices following her. All the friends she’d ever had had looked at her pityingly, whilst doodles appeared on their skin, or their permanent rings glimmered gold. Her parents constantly worried, wondering what she would become. _This is a world of couples. How can one girl be all alone?_ Logically, Sophie should have had a soulmate, either romantic or platonic. Very few other people didn’t. Sophie was an abnormality. A problem, a flaw in the system. She was broken, missing pieces, and all she had was herself. Whenever the subject came up, she clenched her teeth and looked away.

Sophie Foster did not have a soulmate. She’d have been lying if she said that it didn’t sting. 

Her heart ached whenever she saw another person’s soulmark, or watched them gently touch the bruises their other person had unwillingly given them. Soulmates who had found each other hurt worse, because, oh _God_ , she would never have that. She could never look at someone like that. She could never be pulled like that, never gravitate to someone, never be so herself, be so whole, that she didn’t even need the rest of reality. Her blank skin and her silent thoughts and her own clumsy bumps and bruises were all she had to keep her company. 

Sophie looked it up, one day, what not having a soulmate meant. 

The results felt like jeers. 

_“Sociopathic.”_

_“Psychopathic.”_

_“Incapable of love.”_

_“Destined for great misfortune.”_

She found a notable article about people who didn’t have soulmates. 

She swallowed. _“Hitler, despite popular belief, had ten soul marks, none of which belonged to the same person. Although, it is legend that Atilla the Hun had no soulmate.”_

Great. 

Even Hitler had soulmates.

She was the only one who didn’t. 

The government probably would have come down on her and studied her, if they hadn’t been so concerned with everything else. Soulmates were at the bottom of the government’s list of things to worry about. Besides, no one really cared about her. She was little. She was blonde. She was a girl, for crying out loud. No one saw her as a threat. 

She didn’t even see herself as a threat.

She kept reading. 

_“Those who do not have soulmates have been considered among the most heartless and most dastardly villains to the modern world. Jack the Ripper, Jeffery Dahmer, Ted Bundy, and Fintan Pyren are all listed as lacking soulmates. It is common consensus that those who do not possess soulmates are incapable of love, and are usually sociopathic.”_

Sophie shut her laptop, feeling her stomach roil. 

Silveny, her fluffy white samoyed dog, bounded up into her lap, stretching herself happily over the girl, who groaned and hugged her big dog. She breathed in the smell of dog fur and tried to think properly. Silveny loved her. She loved Silveny. She must… she couldn’t… Silveny rolled over and jumped up off the bed, seemingly satisfied with Sophie’s reaction, and bounded out of the room to do whatever other dog things she had on her schedule. 

The articles and the links and the _proof_ flashed in front of her eyes whenever she shut them.

Was she really incapable of love? 

Was she evil?

Was she broken? 

Was she flawed? It seemed like it. It would make sense.

No soulmate, no way to get around it, right? She was going to grow up and be a serial arsonist. Or a killer. Or, by golly, Atilla the Hun!!!

This was great. Just great. 

But, she couldn’t, right? She couldn’t really be evil. 

Honestly, at this point, Sophie didn’t know what to think.

So she wondered.

Sophie kept wondering for the rest of the night. She wondered as she got up from her bed and went down to eat dinner. She wondered as she scarfed down her mom’s Starkflower Soup. She wondered as she helped with the dishes and wondered as she watched Sherlock. She wondered as she brushed her teeth and she wondered as she pulled the covers up over herself and noticed the pen on her bedside table. 

She picked it up. Black ink. Thin. She stared at it, in her hands.

She wasn’t a sociopath. She wasn’t a psychopath. She wasn’t incapable of love. She was full of love. She had friends. She had family. She didn’t need a bloody soulmate. And if people were going to think that she was evil just because she was all on her own in a world full of pairs, well, she wouldn’t let them. She would be her own soulmate. She uncapped the pen, and for the first time in her life, she began to draw. 

A little flaming heart appeared near her wrist. She grinned at it. The black outline looked kind of pretty against her too-pale skin. Further up her arm, just before her elbow, she wrote, “Soulmates are for the weak and lonely.”

She considered it a moment, and then scribbled a bit more. She had to fix it. _“Soulmates are for the ~~-weak-~~ tired and lonely.”_

The next day she went to school with short sleeves. They still called her “Psycho,” but she didn’t care anymore. She had herself. She could be her own soulmate. She was enough, just by herself. 

She never stopped writing on her skin. She constantly added more. Flowers, trees, song lyrics. After she ran out of space on the underside of her arm, she wrapped it around the back. 

She wrote pretty words between her fingers and drew stars on her shoulder. She dotted lines and peppered swirls, and her whole arm was her own work of art. She grinned to herself, as she walked through the halls, feeling so whole, for the first time in forever, knowing that she was doing something right.

Her parents gave her their own mild sort of hell for it, of course, but she didn’t stop. She could tell they didn’t like how it was only her own words, her own drawings. They said it looked messy and awkward, and could she please clean that off? It didn’t look right. They were worried about her, a lot, and always had been, and they thought she was slipping now that she’d decided to write to no one.

Sophie didn’t care. “Why is it so different if I’m not writing to anyone? Everyone else has a mark, or something, somewhere. Why is it so different if it’s me?”

They didn’t have anything to say to that. 

She kept drawing for no one but herself. 

Sophie Foster did not have a soulmate. Everyone knew she was the one drawing because of that. Everyone thought she was strange. She fought so hard to be whole that she forgot that every night when she lay down in bed, and the lights were off and the house was silent, that she was still alone. Still in pieces. Her heart was screaming, in her chest. 

She was not whole. 

But she could try to forget. 

“Sophie,” her mother said one day, finally, watching her sketch another pattern onto her arm for the third time that day, “Are you alright, Baby? You know that--”

Sophie sighed, tightly, looking away from her drawing to explain. “No one’s getting these. I know. These drawings aren’t for anybody else. They’re for me. I don’t have a soulmate, so I have to be whole on my own, Mom. I’m not going to let a soulmate define who I have to be. I’m drawing on my arm to let people know that I’m fine. I love who I am. I don’t need a soulmate.”

Her mother scooped her up into her arms, holding her tightly as she could. “I love you, Sophie,” she said, softly, “You are so much stronger than you think you are.”

Sophie was determined to fill the hole in her chest. So she volunteered. She went places. She wrote things. She read books, cried about love. She pulled out eyelashes and counted breaths. She took the bus to the city, took money out of her wallet for the people on the streets. She was determined that if she did not have a soulmate, she was going to make life better, not worse, for everyone else. 

She ditched the friends that looked at her so pityingly, and found herself friends who smiled whenever they saw her. Biana hugged her tighter than anyone else. Fitz ruffled her hair so kindly. Linh added drawings to her skin, sometimes, while glancing worriedly at her invisible red string. Marella cracked jokes whenever Sophie looked sad. Dex told her stories about how he’d hacked into the FBI for a whole ten seconds before they caught him and sent him off with a slap on the wrist and a 10 day suspension from the internet. 

She loved. She loved deep and hard. She hugged her friends and felt pieces of herself meld together. She loved them all so much.

How could people ever have called her heartless? Psychopathic? This was love, right here, in her chest, and she was full of it.

Despite this, it didn’t make her feel any less broken. People were talking about their soulmates, all the time. The older she got, the more time that passed, the more that her classmates and friends found them. The more her not having one became harder and harder to bear. Biana found Tam, just like her mother had found her father, when they’d touched for the first time the glimmering rings around their fingers had sparkled in rainbow colors and they’d felt the wonderful electric shock. Fitz found some boy in his algebra class as his platonic soulmate. They’d been hearing each other’s thoughts since birth, and apparently they only realized it when they’d spoken. The words “I guess x is a variant of y,” was a normal thing people say to each other in that class. Fitz now had those words seared onto his arm. Dex had accidentally made eye contact with some girl, on the street, one day, and now he could see in color. Linh wasn’t following her string, she’d told Sophie, one day. “I want my soulmate to find me.”

And Sophie was alone with the drawings on her arms and the knowledge that maybe she could blow up buildings for fun if she ever turned to crime. Some girl, one day, in global economics, brought up how psychopaths had either more than three soulmates, or didn’t have a soulmate at all. She cited every article. Pressed in every point, and yet. Sophie knew the girl was wrong. 

Because, well. She existed. 

Glancing down at her arms, she saw the flowers she’d been drawing before the class had started. She scanned the words, all over her arms. She had taken to writing poetry, lately, and her skin was covered in half-baked rhymes and missing pieces of flower petals. 

Sophie Foster did not have a soulmate. She was the exception. And she was fine with it. She had to be.

Otherwise she would fall apart.

\------------------------------------------------------

Keefe Sencen did not want a soulmate. He lived his whole life ignoring those little dots of pen that appeared on his hands, his arms, and fighting to keep his own clean. 

His father and his mother were soulmates. He watched them tear each other to pieces. Yelling, bickering, jabs at what each of them loved, pushing each other as far as they could go, to get a rise, a reaction, anything. 

He watched them fight, tooth and nail. He watched them scream. He watched his father hit his mother until her cheeks were bruised. He watched his mother scratch his father till long trails of blood glimmered on his arms. They were soulmates, and their son watched them fall apart together. 

When he watched his mother walk out the door, that one night, bag in hand and scowl on her face, when she snarled something at him over her shoulder, something he couldn’t remember, now, no matter how hard he tried, he missed her. The missing turned selfish when his father’s anger only had him to be taken out on. He wanted her to come back, to save him, to make everything be okay.

But would it have been okay?

No. Nothing was ever okay when his parents had been together. But it was even less okay now. 

He was even less okay.

When his father’s drunken words and fists turned him into a husk of himself, he realized something.

Keefe Sencen did not want a soulmate. He would only hurt them.

Everyone had always said he was just like his father, after all. 

So what if everyone hadn’t seen the blows and the torrents of words behind his mask of prosperity and charm. 

The thought was still there. He was just like his father. He would drive his soulmate away. He didn’t write on his arms. He didn’t let himself think about writing. He didn’t let himself touch one dot of ink to his skin. He wouldn’t doom his soulmate to his reality. The simple little fact that he would break down as his father had and drive them away in a flash, bruises and snarls and scowls and all. 

His soulmate didn’t want him either, he soon realized. After all, why wouldn’t they write? Maybe they had another soulmate. Maybe they were dead. Maybe they just didn’t want him. It made the most sense. He found himself dotting another line on his skin, just below theirs. It was noticeable, but he knew they would only notice if they were looking. 

Nothing happened. He waited, refusing to wash it off, and he was about to bite the bullet and write something, when his father walked in. The pen was snatched from his hands, instantly, and his father spat words in his face, “No child of mine is talking is talking with their soulmate. Soulmates only bring you pain.”

Two months later, on his thirteenth birthday, he’d been inches from writing, drawing, just letting them know he existed, so maybe they would want him, maybe somebody would want him. He set the pen on his skin, and waited for an idea to form, something to write, something to draw, and he’d just settled on the word, “Hello,” when a hand flew into his face, hard, and he fell back, the pen flying out of his grasp. He stared up at his father with wide eyes, blinking back the black dots that flickered his vision. It took his father one second to communicate his feelings. Loud yelling echoed in Keefe’s head for years, about how he was worthless, terrible, such a disgrace, his soulmate didn’t want him. His soulmate would never want him. Don’t even think about talking to them, don’t dare to think about them at all. 

“My soulmate couldn’t even love _me_ ,” the man snarled, loud enough to make Keefe wince, “How could yours even _want_ you?”

Keefe never told anyone how much he cried that night. He never told anyone about any of it. What could they do? What could they say? “Oh, sucks to suck,” was not something he wanted to hear about this. Or any of it. So he wasn’t going to talk about it. He was going to suck it up, be a man, be strong, by more than this. When he woke up the next morning, he cursed the dots of ink on his skin. He cursed the soulmate he’d never met. “Why did you have to get me?” He mumbled, eventually, “Why couldn’t I be born without one? Why couldn’t I have been alone?”

He pressed his finger into the tiny ink mark that hadn’t gone anywhere for the past few days. His soulmate must have used a permanent marker. He just wanted it to go away. He wanted them to go away. He didn’t want a soulmate. He didn’t need one. He’d have been better off if he’d never had one.

When Keefe was fifteen, something changed. 

Nothing so big as his father leaving him alone, or even his mother coming back, or even him getting away from the pain and the cold, cold, dark house he called his own.

No, something much worse.

With a slight tingle, a little flaming heart appeared below his wrist. He _stared_ at it, his pulse thundering, memories upon memories flying through his head, his heart pounding and a panic attack setting in and oh, God, he couldn’t breathe.

He got up, quickly, from where he’d been lying in bed, and rushed to the bathroom, knowing that he hadn’t drawn it, but begging, begging, pleading with every god in existence that this be a joke, a fluke, something that would leave him alone. His father couldn’t see this. His father couldn’t see it. His father would think that it was his own drawing and his father would be mad. 

Keefe scrubbed at it, terrified, his body trembling in a way it hadn’t since he’d gone to bed with the sounds of screaming voices in his ears. He needed to get that little drawing off his skin. He needed it off, he needed it off, he needed it _off_. 

It didn’t go anywhere. It stayed there, seemingly so innocent, so perfect. He scrubbed until his skin was raw, but the mark stayed where it was. The ink seeped through his skin. It was from his soulmate. A sob choked him. 

So many years of radio silence. So many moments of wondering why, just why wouldn’t they write him something, and so many years used to the fact that they wouldn’t, that he would never hear from them, that he was going to stay alone. And now, now there was a tiny little flaming heart on his wrist.

It wasn’t going anywhere.

What was he going to do?

He slid down onto the floor, his breathing shaky and his stifled sobs shaking his chest. He scratched his fingers into his skin, hard, sharp, begging somebody, anybody, that it would just go away. Was there no mercy in this world? No kindness? Didn’t the people who handed out soulmates know what would happen to him?

His fingers dug into it harder.

Blood trailed down under his sleeve, and the mark stayed where it was. 

He pulled his sleeve back, shaking, checking for more marks to hide. There was no way that his soulmate had done more than just one little doodle. Honestly, it was a miracle that they hadn’t doodled on themself all the time. He reigned in his breath, praying for nothing.

Just below his elbow, there were words.

_“Soulmates are for the weak and lonely.”_

Tears streamed down his face. They still didn’t want him. He leaned his head back against the wall, pressing his fingers into the words hard enough to leave a bruise. There was still blood trailing down his arm from the scratches over the heart. He was getting it everywhere. He’d have to clean it up, and soon. He couldn’t make himself care, yet. His soulmate had sent him a message. They didn’t want him. 

There was no use in crying over someone who didn’t want him. 

He sniffed, deeply, and tried to calm down. He needed to be calm. His heartbeat slowly thudded more calmly, and his arm stung from the scratches. He plastered on a bandaid, carefully, regretting digging his fingers in so hard. 

He stared at the words on his arm for a second, then began digging around in the cupboards. There had to be some way to cover it up. Makeup, nailpolish, bandages, bruises. He didn’t care, all he knew was that if his father saw it, he’d-- 

Keefe derailed that thought, and began searching for his mother’s makeup. Sure, it was a few(five) years old, but it would still work. They hadn’t thrown anything of hers out. He’d tried it once, and gotten taught a lesson for it. He found her concealer, and before he could second-guess himself, he opened the container. There wasn’t much left. His mother had taken everything good with her. But it had to work. It had to. He could deal with this. Long sleeves and makeup, it would be like the words didn’t exist. It would be like that heart didn’t exist. He glanced down at the words again. 

It had changed. It now read, _“Soulmates are for the ~~-weak-~~ tired and lonely.”_

Why had they changed it?

He _was_ weak. He fought the urge to cross out the “tired” and write “weak” again. But he couldn’t risk it. His father would find out, eventually, and then he’d be in for it. Until then, he could keep it as unnoticeable as possible.

Unnoticable was not the word he could think of the next morning in class, when drawings were appearing all over him, as he was staring as flowers and patterns and swirls and beautiful, beautiful words littered themselves on his arm. It was like his soulmate already hated him. 

He shook that thought out. They didn’t know anything about him. Hell, they might not even know he existed. He’d always been so careful not to get ink on his arm. 

The words were sadly beautiful, as they were written, and despite himself, he let himself watch his soulmate write them.

_“Maybe I don’t need anyone._

_“But then why do I feel so empty?”_

He watched flowers appear around the words.

_“I refuse to be what they want me to be.”_

Whirls of colored pens circled around that one. 

_"Every time I close my eyes, it’s like a dark paradise._

_“No one compares to you, I’m scared that you won’t be waiting on the other side.”_

Those were song lyrics. He looked them up. He let his soulmate’s song wash over him. When he looked back at his arm, more drawings had appeared. His soulmate was on a mission.

More drawings, and more drawings, and more drawings appeared, his heart was thudding in his chest as he watched them. They were beautiful. But they were painful. Every one had a double meaning, every one was sad. Every single one killed his heart the tiniest bit, and he wished he didn’t exist at all. 

People in his class were watching the writings appear on his arm as much as he was. It wasn’t often that you got to see someone else completely doodle all over someone’'s arm in the middle of Economics. Keefe wanted to write back. 

“Mr. Sencen,” His teacher said, sharply, “You are distracting the class! Whatever is the problem?”

He swallowed, stood up, and held up his arm. “It’s not me. It’s my soulmate. They won’t stop writing me.”

She sighed, rubbing her forehead. “I should send you to the nurse.”

Keefe’s eyes widened, and panic flickered through his body. He tossed a carefree grin at the woman, “No need, ma’am. I’m only this lovesick around you…” He winked at her.

The woman was unamused. “Glitchy or Hyperactive soulmate bonds aren’t rare, Mr. Sencen. Head down to the nurse’s office, right now. Or detention. Three weeks. Make up your mind.”

He went to the nurse’s, and watched as the young man inspected his arm, rubbing alcohol making his senses sting. None of it would come off.

“Elwin,” he said, finally, “Mine bleeds through my skin. It’s not going to come off.”

Elwin sat back, on his special spinny leather doctor stool, and sighed, rubbing his forehead. “I don’t know what your teacher wanted me to do. If your soul bond is a distraction for the rest of the class…”

“They’ve just decided that today was the perfect day to completely cover my arm in drawings. I… I’ve never seen them do this before. Usually it’s just little pen marks here and there. This… This is a lot.”

Elwin nodded. “There’s a chance that it’s a few year’s marks, and that your bond glitched.”

Keefe shook his head. “Something changed.” He swallowed. “I also don’t think they know they’re writing me.”

Elwin looked surprised.

“Yeah,” Keefe said, tightly. “All the marks are sad.”

“Maybe they’re just upset you aren’t writing back.”

Keefe didn’t say anything. Elwin was wrong. His soulmate didn’t want him. 

“Well,” the nurse sighed, and started typing into a computer, “I’ll see if we can organize a real doctor’s appointment for you. I don’t have the right tools. Let me call your father.”

Keefe tensed as he watched the call.

“Alright, he’ll be here in about fifteen minutes. He also mentioned something about being sorry for whatever trouble you’ve caused this time. What’s that about?”

He shrugged. 

So what if he got in detention a few times a month. So what if he fought with kids and cut school. His father didn’t really care. All his father cared about was himself, and possibly having a punching bag when the alcohol set in. Keefe wasn’t really sure.

He didn’t like to think about it.

He didn’t want to think about it.

So he wasn’t going to.

His father drove him straight home. Keefe knew they wouldn’t have been going to the doctor’s. 

He lay in his bed that night, his body aching, his mind rebelling, and he stared at the scratched over heart. 

It was still there. They hadn’t washed it off. 

Every drawing was still there the next morning, and more filed onto his skin, steadily, as though it was methodical, and whenever his soulmate was bored they doodled something. The pictures and writings fluctuated from being teardrops in eyes, with sad song lyrics, to rings of hearts with stars and Taylor Swift songs. Every so often there was a drawing that didn’t fit with the rest, done in a different style, and he knew his soulmate had a friend. He saw little doodles of hands, bright colors of marker that dripped like blood on his fingers, and words that seemed to have caught his soulmate’s fancy in science that traipsed between his fingers. 

The days turned into months, which passed and his bruises came and went, formed and healed and the pictures changed, too. The words were washed and replaced and washed and replaced. They never stopped coming. They never left him alone.

And Keefe found that he didn’t want them to, anymore.

He wanted them to stay. 

So, he started copying the doodles, the lyrics, the tiny poems that had to be their own creation, cause he couldn’t find them anywhere on the internet. His notebooks were soon full of the drawings. So, he started drawing, he started expanding, imagining what he’d write back if he dared, what he’d add onto their drawings if he could. He touched the drawings, happily, those mornings he woke up to aches and purple skin and flowers and poems and smiley faces and swirls and he couldn’t help thinking that whoever they were, he really did love them.

He wasn’t alone. So maybe all it was was drawings. But, now, all Keefe had in the world were someone else’s words on his arm and his father’s spiteful glares as he took in his son’s appearance. He kind of liked it. His father couldn’t wash it off, they stayed there, taunting him, glaring at him, reminding his father that maybe, just maybe, his son was wanted.

Keefe didn’t let himself think too hard about that bit. Whoever his soulmate was probably had taste. They wouldn’t want him once they met him, or knew he existed.

But so far, he had them. 

That was enough reason to keep on.

It was going well enough for him until one night. 

One night. 

Everything changed.

Maybe it was because he came home to quiet anger that chilled him to the bone, the threat of more, just hanging over a ledge, glaring down on him like a vulture. Maybe it was all his papers scattered all over the floor with copies of his favorite sketches his soulmate had drawn. Maybe it was the feeling that either it would all get worse, or it would all get better. Maybe it was the unshakeable loneliness that the house was full to the brim with. Maybe it was the cold that creeped in despite the blankets he pulled over his shoulders. Maybe it was the fact that they’d drawn a sunflower on his arm(Sunflowers had always been his favorite). Maybe that was what made him pick up the sharpie from the nightstand and glance down over his arm.

Maybe that was why he uncapped the marker. 

Maybe that was why he came so close to tracing a word along his arm. To dotting a line. To writing _back._

He’d forgotten his door was open, and he was two millimeters from touching the marker to his skin and letting them know he existed and he had just changed his mind, decided it was too big of a risk and was about to put the cap back on the marker and go to bed curled up with the sunflower and the thought that maybe somebody out there was just for him and he was going to put it down when his father jerked his arm up, sharply, and a cruel, thick, black, permanent line went right through the center of the flower, up across some words, and into a field of spirally snails. 

Keefe and his father stared at it for a moment. Keefe’s heart was pounding, he couldn’t breathe. 

He couldn’t hide from this, now. 

Willingly or not, his soulmate knew he was out there. 

He didn’t wash the line off, not for all that his father yelled.

\------------------------------------------------------

She woke up with a line on her skin that she hadn’t put there.

She rubbed her eyes, and blinked. 

The black line stayed on her skin. It crossed over the big sunflower she’d drawn yesterday, and the poem she’d written a couple days ago. The one that went, _“With ice in your eyes and wind in your mind, you’ll fall through the seas of the wandering-kind.”_

It hadn’t been a very good one. And it was short. Kind of weird.

But now there was a thick black line through it.

It was long, too, and went through the snails that she and Linh and Biana had worked on on last night. 

She stared at it. 

Her heart pounded in her chest, her body humming with a million thoughts, unrealistic, wrong, _impossible._

She ran to the bathroom, and began scrubbing at her skin. She took off every single drawing. The ones in sharpie, the ones in pen, the ones in marker. It all came off. She rubbed with alcohol and with oil and with soap and with grease remover. 

Her arm stung. 

The black line didn’t leave.

She sank to the ground, staring at it.

There was a black line on her arm. About the width of a permanent marker. 

She hadn’t put it there.

It wouldn’t wash off.

She slowly got to her feet. The room felt spinny, and she leaned against the doorframe, her heart thudding in her ears and her brain going several million miles an hour. She swallowed. It couldn’t be real. This had to be a fluke. A joke. Someone had played a joke on her.

But if it was a joke, how hadn’t she washed it off?

“Sophie?” her mom said, from the side of the hall, “Are you alright?”

Sophie shook her head, fiercely. There was a black line on her arm. A black line that she hadn’t drawn.

“What’s wrong? Are you ill? Do we need to get you to the doctor? Grady! Come up here! Sophie’s sick!”

Sophie shook her head.

“You’re not sick?”

She actually thought she might throw up. But she wasn’t the kind of sick they meant.

“What’s wrong then?” her father leaned towards her. 

She held up her arm. “I didn’t draw that,” she said, her voice scratchy, choked by invisible thorns that were cutting her up inside. 

Her parents stared at the black line. 

“What?” Her mother’s blue eyes were wide. 

“I did not draw that line,” Sophie said, her body trembling, “And I can’t wash it off.”

Her parents shared a glance, a shocked glance. Sophie pressed a hand to her mouth, cutting off a sob. 

“Mom,” she said, carefully, “Dad,” the breath she took to try and steady her voice was thick with unshed tears. “Do you think that…” She couldn’t finish the sentence. She couldn’t make her voice work.

Her mother leaned in, and pressed her fingers to the mark. “Do you want to find out?”

Sophie nodded, fiercely. “Yes.”

The ride to the doctor’s office was silent. Neither her father nor her mother said anything, and she fought to dissolve her tears before they rolled down her cheeks. 

They walked into the clinic that smelled faintly of recently cleaned up blood, and within four hours found themselves in the room of a Dr. Forkle. 

“If you’ll allow it, I’d like to take an x-ray of your arm,” He said, cheerfully enough, “And two skin tissue samples, one from your untouched skin, and one from the black line.”

She complied. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. 

“So,” the man said, too brightly, “You are registered as having no soulmate.”

Sophie nodded. “Yes.”

“Why do you think that’s changed?” His vocal facade was cracking around the edges. “Most people born without a soulmate do not gain one throughout their life.”

Sophie couldn’t help the coldness in her tone. “I only know as much as you do, Dr. Forkle. There has never been one single sign of me having a soulmate. But there is a line on my arm, and I did not draw it, and it will not come off.”

Twenty minutes later, the lab results came back. Dr. Forkle compared them with the x-ray. 

He chuckled, lightly. Sophie’s eyes shot up to the screen in front of him, trying to make sense of what he was reading. He chuckled louder. She scanned even faster, but none of it clicked together.

“What is it,” she asked, finally, her heart pounding, but her realistic pessimism demanding she remember that she didn’t have a soulmate, she couldn’t have a soulmate, soulmates weren’t for her. 

Sophie Foster did not have a soulmate. She never did, and she never would. “Am I dying?”

“No, my dear girl!” The man said, “Your soulmate decided to write you!”

She felt like she’d been sucker punched. 

“You’ve had a soulmate since you were born, they just never wrote you anything.” 

Sophie gaped, her heart most likely having stopped in her chest.

“I… I have a soulmate? There’s… there’s no way it’s wrong? I don’t have a soulmate. I never have. It’s got to be wrong!”

The doctor shook his head. “We could take more samples. But the result would be the same. You’ve had a soulmate since you were born.”

And Sophie was crying in the doctor’s office. 

\------------------------------------------------------

Writing appeared on Keefe’s arm.

Only writing. 

No drawings.

It was the same little phrase, over and over. It was spreading over his skin like a paint, line after line of the same words. 

_“You’re my soulmate.”_

_“You’re my soulmate.”_

_“Oh my God, you’re my soulmate.”_

He watched the words appear in class, under the long sleeve of his hoodie. Hoodies in May. He would like to thank his father for that fashion faux pas. 

The tingle of words made him look at his arm again. 

_“You’re my soulmate.”_

_“You’re my soulmate.”_

_“I have a soulmate.”_

_“It’s you.”_

_“You’re my soulmate.”_

He touched the words gently, wondering what she’d think of him if he was next to her.

Probably not much.

The ranting continued. The same little words, until that was all his arm said. The words were between his fingers, smudged across his palm, up across his elbow, everywhere. He smiled to himself in the bathroom mirror, as he saw all those excited little words.

Whoever they were was happy. So, so, so happy.

Ecstatic, even.

Because he was their soulmate. 

Doused with cold water, he pulled his hoodie back on, and hung over the sink, feeling sick. Why would they want him? If they saw him, they’d turn away, just like that. He was such a disgrace. He was such a worthless mess.

They could never stay once they met him. 

That night, he came home to silence, again, but every one of his nerves was on fire. He went to his room and he shut and locked his door and he took out his homework and stared at it, watching the lines of math blur together.

His soulmate had finally stopped writing little happy phrases.

Maybe they’d realized what a waste of time it was to try and talk to him. He could never write back.

His mind still ached and his body still pained from last night. That had been an accident.

The words bled off his skin in streaks. They must be washing the words off. 

He watched the ink, carefully. It vanished. 

Then, new words appeared. Slowly. As though the writer was thinking out every single word as they wrote it.

_“Are you going to write back?”_

He stared at it. 

He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Oh, how he wanted to.

_“It’s alright if you don’t. I just didn’t know anyone”_

They stopped, and scribbled out the last word.

_“I just didn’t know that you existed.”_

He really wanted to respond to that. But he wouldn’t. 

_“I didn’t know I had a soulmate. I thought I was born without one. Sorry to be so bothersome with all my freaking out. I just didn’t know I had someone.”_

He felt terrible for making them feel like that. They must have been hurting so much. He’d always known he had a soulmate. They hadn’t had a clue. People associated a lot of scary things with not having a soulmate. 

Psychopathy. Sociopathy. Genocidal maniacs. Serial killers. All that good stuff.

And Keefe had made his soulmate feel like they were one of those kinds of people. Incapable of love, undeserving of it-- He hated himself.

They didn’t write anything more. 

He needed to say something. He needed to tell them that-- _“I’m sorry,”_ the pen was in his hands and the words were on his skin before he could think it through, _“I didn’t mean to hurt you. Please don’t write me anymore.”_

_“Why not?”_

He didn’t respond. 

When he didn’t respond for ten whole minutes, they wrote something else.

_“If you never write me again, please do me a favor and never wash those words off.”_

He swallowed, his throat tight. 

He should have washed the words off right then and there. He should have crawled into the covers. He should have realized exactly what he was getting himself into. But he responded, his pen moving across his arm slowly. _“People I know don’t like me talking to you. I need to wash it off.”_

Ten seconds passed. _“What kind of people?”_

 _“Bad ones,_ ” he responded. 

_“I’m sorry,”_ they wrote. _“I never meant to put you in danger.”_

_“I’m always in danger. It’s normal.”_

_“Just because it’s normal doesn’t make it good.”_

He had nothing to say to that.

_“How old are you?”_

He didn’t know if the bond would let him tell them. _“Sixteen.”_

 _“Same.”_ The slight pause filled his stomach with dread. _“By bad people, you don’t mean your parents, do you?”_

He scribbled lines over it all, worriedly. A tiny line of writing appeared on the topmost scribble.

_“You deserve so much more than that.”_

He snorted, through his nose, and before he went to the bathroom to wash off his arm, he wrote one final line. _“You don’t know me.”_

\------------------------------------------------------

Sophie watched as the words bled off her skin, and then washed her own off, tears pricking in her eyes.

She had a soulmate. They were sixteen.

And they were always in danger. 

Her writing had put them in danger. She hadn’t even known they existed, and she’d already hurt them. How could she have been so foolish? 

Then her mind betrayed her.

What kind of parents could harm their own child? Who would harm someone for talking to their soulmate? How sick did you have to be?

The last words her soulmate had written flooded through her mind.

How hurt must you have to be to believe you deserved it?

Sophie crawled into bed, her heart aching for someone she hadn’t known existed until they were there. She turned that over in her head, and realized it was wrong. Her heart had always ached. It was missing a piece. It was chipped and cracked and it hurt. 

It was just that now she had a reason to let herself feel it. She never had before.

She woke up the next morning and glanced at her blank arm. It felt wrong. She’d had drawings on it near constantly for nearly a year. It felt like she was naked. So, she picked up a pen, and wrote, _“Soulmates are for the tired and the lonely.”_

No crossed out words this time. She meant it. She was tired. She was lonely. She wanted her soulmate. It was an interesting feeling, wanting them so badly. She had no clue who they were, but she knew they existed, and apparently that thought was enough to make her want to be whole. With them.

Stars, here she was. Sappy and romantic and all a mess because she even had a soulmate. 

She might never find them, anyway. 

But she had one.

Sophie Foster had a soulmate. 

Her smile stretched her cheeks.

She kept drawing, bearing in mind how long she had to get to school, and pulled her markers and her pens and everything she had accumulated out. She decorated the words, adding tree branches that encircled the letters like a leafy hug. 

In Geometry, she drew birds. 

In English, she wrote happy notes. She was determined to be happy in what her soulmate would read. She’d poured her sadness out on her arms for too long. She needed to send him happiness.

The resolve didn’t last long, and she found sorrowful song lyrics wheedling their way onto her skin when she was bored in Econ. 

She didn’t wash them off. 

_“So love me wrong if you can’t love me right_

_“All I want is to be in your mind_

_“You’re the one who builds my paradise--_

_“So love me, love me wrong_

_“Love me, Love me wrong_

_“Love me, love me wrong_

_“If you can’t love me right.”_

And they added onto it. Just slightly. Barely noticeable. But Sophie was watching. Extra colors graced her skin. Lines she hadn’t drawn. Punctuation in a different hand(she never punctuated things). Stars. Tiny doodles. 

One day, they drew a whole stick man, and left it there, looking up at the little words she’d written, in seeming awe. She drew another stick man alongside it. Hers was holding her soulmate’s hand. 

They didn’t talk. 

But there was conversation. Sophie always was drawing things, and her soulmate flicked back and forth between adding to whatever she did, and silence. It was a back and forth kind of thing. It wasn’t steady, but Sophie didn’t need it to be.

It was enough, just as it was.

They just didn’t write any words. 

Not until Christmas Eve.

Sophie had just gotten into bed, feeling wonderfully alive, the excitement of tomorrow and the reminder of food and of gifts flooding through her mind on repeat. She couldn’t get comfortable, and kept squirming in bed. Eventually, she wound up with her arm right in front of her face, which was probably the only reason she saw it at all.

Two words. _“Merry Christmas.”_

She smiled, and scrambled for a pen. She hovered over her arm for a moment, and then decided, screw it. She was writing. _“And a Happy New Year.”_

They didn’t respond, and she was about to turn out her light, when she saw a snowflake appear.

She grinned at it. _“How are you?”_

_“Alive.”_

_“That’s good. I’m glad you’re alive. I’m glad you exist.”_

Pause. 

_“You’d be one of the first.”_

Her heart ached. She changed the subject. _“What do you want for Christmas?”_

There was a long pause. 

A long, long, long, long, loooonnnng pause. 

_“Honestly? New notebooks. I’m running out.”_

_“What do you write?”_

_“Whatever you do.”_

_“What do you mean?”_

Silence. She realized he wasn’t going to answer, or the bond wouldn’t let him. _“I want to meet you,”_ she wrote, _“But I always want that. I guess I’m hoping for more pens. Maybe money. Candy wouldn’t go unappreciated, either.”_

_“What’s your favorite candy?”_

She grinned. _“Mallowmelt Bars.”_

_“Those are good.”_

And they kept talking. The night was dark, and Sophie could see snow falling outside her window, and her heart was leaping in her chest as all the words appeared on her arm. She didn’t stop writing back.

Their handwriting was beautiful. It curled, just a little bit, and was bigger than hers. It was slightly uneven, and seemed like the writer was used to writing on lines, and writing without them was difficult. Sophie lanced at the clock some time later, and blanched. It was almost two. 

_“I’ve got to go to bed,”_ She wrote. _“Thanks for talking to me. Do you want me to wash this off?”_

 _“Yeah,”_ They wrote, _“That would be good.”_

So she did. She washed it off, her heart aching. Then she watched her soulmate wash theirs off. 

She sighed, and went to bed.

The next morning, she woke up, and a drawing was on her arm. A snowflake. 

She grinned at it, and before she went downstairs, drew two more, and wrote, in her prettiest, most loopy handwriting, _“Merry Christmas!”_

She went downstairs, thrilled, and fell into the whirlwind of the holiday, her heart thumping whenever she caught a glimpse of that snowflake.

\------------------------------------------------------

Keefe Sencen shouldn’t have made a habit of it. 

He’d talked to them on Christmas Eve, he talked to them Christmas Night. He talked to them Boxing Day. He talked to them the next day. 

He kept talking. 

But, without fail, he washed off the words. He never let them stay. They always followed suit. Whenever his words washed off, theirs would vanish, too. After that tiny Christmas gift of a snowflake, he didn’t let anything else stay either. He knew what would happen.

And he learned things. They liked Mallowmelt Bars. Their favorite color was orange.

Their eyes were brown.

They had never kissed anyone.

They had a dog. They were a huge dog person.

 _They_ , as he called her for so long, were actually a _she._

She liked some band called “Bring Me The Horizon.” He listened to a few songs. He only liked them because they were so _her_. Sharp, dark, and kind of haunted. Determined, fierce, and righteously angry. 

She plucked out her eyelashes when she was worried.

She drew on her arms when she was sad or happy or bored.

She liked to draw things she was good at drawing, but hated drawing things she wasn’t good at. People’s faces, for instance. 

She liked to draw in colors, once a week or so, and plain black the rest of the time.

He knew her favorite song at any given time, because she always wrote the lyrics on her arm, and surrounded them with something, like leaves or flowers or lightning. 

She never punctuated anything. He loved that. Her sloppy writing was worth watching. He could watch her write for hours. 

He found himself slipping down a ledge, and he couldn’t catch himself or keep himself from slipping all the more. Not when she asked him so nicely to draw her something. Not when she said she’d actually succeeded at drawing a face. Not when she told him how her friend had stumbled into the arms of her platonic soulmate, and how she hoped they’d meet much more handsomely like that. He’d told her if they were anything similar, they’d meet much more messily.

She’d drawn a little smiley face. _“We can be messy together.”_

Yes, Keefe was slipping, sliding, falling. 

Right into the arms of the girl on the other end of the ink on his very own arm.

And he couldn’t stop. 

Especially not when she told him about her fluffy dog that had spilled glitter all over her the other day. Not when she drew little clusters of hearts on his palms. Not when she told him, the handwriting hasty and shaking with joy, _“Shut up, you’re too funny, I can’t stop laughing!”_

The thought of making his soulmate laugh was too much. He grinned brighter than the sun for the rest of the day. He walked through the town, his eyes bright, searching for a good spot to eat. There wasn’t anything to eat at home, and he was starving. Hadn’t eaten breakfast, and school lunches were poisoned garbage. Literally.

Tacos, he decided. It was Tuesday. Tuesday meant Tacos. Taco Tuesday. Fantastic. Wasn’t like anyone else had ever come up with that. He was a genius.

He got his tacos, as a late lunch kind of thing, and ate on the sticky plastic seats of the restaurant, happy. So, so happy. He finished, and threw his trash away, and walked on home. 

Even the cold of his house and the feeling of being doused with a bucket of cold water couldn’t dampen his spirits. He’d made his soulmate laugh. Humming, he took his coat off, and stepped into the kitchen.

His father was home early. 

The thought sent ripples of ice down his back, but he brushed it off, and kept doing what he was doing. He got himself a glass of water, ignoring the brandy-scented glasses and the distasteful glare he was getting from the table. At least, he assumed it was both distasteful and a glare. He didn’t bother to check.

“How are you doing, Keefe?”

That jerked Keefe’s eyes to his father’s. “What?”

“How are you doing?”

There was no slur to the words, no hinting of anger, pain, or even disappointment. He was caught off guard. “I… I’m good,” he said, his voice startled.

“How are your classes going?”

“I-- Uh. Good?”

“Good,” His father actually nodded at him. “Your grades have been exceptional.”

Keefe wondered what alien creature was possessing his father. But whoever or whatever it was, he was here for it. “Yeah, thanks. I’ve been working pretty hard.”

The nod he got in response made his lips turn up at the corners. His heart felt like it was going to explode, or something equally as dumb, his father’s approval echoing through his shocked mind. “You’re an excellent student.”

Was he really dumb enough to soak up every good word his father said like he was a sponge? 

Yes. Yes he was. His heart felt like it had wings. He was good at something, his father thought, no, better than good, excellent, exceptional. Parental approval was a drug, and Keefe was an addict who had been in withdrawal for his whole life.

He reached up and scratched behind his ear, digging his nails behind his blonde hair. Unsure what else to say, his eyes seemed to be magnetically drawn to the floor. What do you even say to that? He could either talk about his classes, and risk boring his father, or say nothing and come across as ungrateful, or maybe the opposite either way. 

“What’s that on your arm?”

And Keefe froze. 

Realization hit him like a semi truck.

He had forgotten to wash the words off. Once he washed his off, she always washed hers. But he didn’t. He’d forgotten. 

“Nothing,” he choked out, instantly, his voice shifting up in pitch. “Um, she’s been writing me a lot more, and um--”

“She?” The taller man snarled, standing up, towering over Keefe like their height wasn’t the grand total of four inches in difference. “How do you know that it’s a she?”

Keefe paled. “Uh…”

And before he could move, a bruisingly strong grip clenched around his arm, and his father scanned the writing. Reading, all that it said. Both sides of the conversation. His and his soulmates. His father’s face corrupted into a look of complete scorn. _“Maggot,”_ he snarled, “What have I told you about soulmates?”

Keefe could have recited all of it off the top of his head at any given moment. But that would only make things worse.

“What the hell have I told you about soulmates?”

He said nothing.

“They’re nothing but pain and lies. All they are for is making you drink your lonely life away, mourning the existence of a son you wish would just die already.”

Keefe had heard it all before. But it didn’t make it hurt any less. Nothing like a parent telling you casually that they’d rather you were dead to make you feel absolutely perfect about yourself. Nothing like it for your mental health. Nothing so lovely for your self-esteem.

“Soulmates are the only thing on this earth we can avoid that is guaranteed to bring us pain. You know this, I thought. Maybe you aren’t such an exceptional student, after all.”

“I never wanted to be a good student to make you proud,” he said, softly. 

“Well, maybe you should have,” and Keefe was caught by how clear his father’s breath smelled. He hadn’t been drinking. There was no alcohol to blame for this. Just his father’s sober mind. “I’m the only one who cares about you, anyway.”

“She cares about me,” He said, after a good three seconds, his fists clenching.

“She hasn’t even met you. You know that the second she sees you she’ll leave you, just like your mother left me! Your mother is my soulmate,” he snarled, “And we were perfect. You were the thing that came along and tore us apart. Why do you think she never came back? It’s certainly not for my not wanting her back--no, it’s because of you, you filthy little--”

Keefe shut his eyes to the insults, trying to let them roll off his back. The words stuck anyway, like eggs on the skin of the surinam toad, clinging to him, embedding in his skin, leeching off him. He was already in for it, so he decided, what the heck, why not ruin his own life a bit more. “She’s not like Mom.”

“How do you know,” Snarled his father, looming dangerously towards him and making his stomach roil, “You’ve never even met her!”

“Mom didn’t care a jolt about either of us,” Keefe burst out, “And my soulmate does. She cares about me a lot. She’s been talking to me for _months_ , Dad! Months! She hasn’t done any of the crap Mom pulled on you.”

“She doesn’t even know you,” His father snarled. “She’ll destroy you, just like your mother did to me, and leave you alone, drinking your life away, watching your own offspring fail at everything you didn’t knowing that your soulmate continues to haunt you just through the son she gave you!”

“Don’t need to know someone to be a good person to them,” Keefe snapped back.

The blow that crashed across his nose made him know he’d taken it too far. Honestly, it should have come sooner. Should have shut him up earlier. Sent him off right away with a stinging face but an intact pride. 

Nope. 

He’d taken it way too far. He’d said too much. It was all too much.

And he was going to pay for it. 

He was thoroughly numb by the time his father was done with him, the trembling in his limbs not going anywhere as he shakily climbed to his feet from the floor of the kitchen, not willing to wipe his own blood up. His body was shaking, and he pulled himself over to the wall, and washed off the words. 

His entire body screamed as he moved.

It had never been this bad.

It was always a couple hits when he was drunk. A couple smacks around when he was sober. Couple punches late at night, a few rough shoves in the mornings.

Nothing where his entire body screamed like it was dying. Nothing where he could feel phantom kicks or punches or slaps echoing through his body in a constant, hot, quiet hum of pain.

He pulled a pen out of his back pocket.

He had a few choices, here. 

He could tell her to leave him alone. He could tell her he couldn’t talk to her anymore. He could just give her radio silence. She’d respect it. She had before, or he could say that he needed to stop talking for just a while, or he could pretend like nothing had happened, he’d done that sooo many times before, but this was different. This was worse. He had to--

_“Help”_

She replied in five seconds flat. _“What’s wrong”_

_“My dad-- you were right about the danger thing, when we first talked. Forgot to wash it off.”_

The pause made him start to regret things. But then she responded.

_“Okay. Are you safe right now?”_

_“I’m never safe, you know that.”_

_“Right, right, but you need to get somewhere safe. You need to get out of where he can get to you. Then you can work from there. Alright? Trust me. It’s going to be okay. I’m here for you.”_

He stared at the words, which blurred messily in front of his eyes.

 _“You still there?”_ She wrote, _“Stay with me, okay? We need to get you safe.”_

He nodded, before he remembered she couldn’t see it. He finally scribbled, _“Okay.”_

The night was cold and dark as he left the house, his backpack on his shoulders. It had notebooks crammed in it, pencils, pens, markers, and a change and a half of clothes. He hadn’t really been thinking, as he stumbled around his room in the dark, hunting for his secret supply of emergency cash, and his flashlight and his blanket. His laptop he hadn’t taken, but he had grabbed his phone. He needed some way to get onto the internet. Mcdonald’s had free wifi, right? He couldn’t remember. He just had one thought in his mind. The thought his soulmate had put there. _“You need to get out of where he can get to you.”_ It wasn’t a lot, but it was enough to make him move. And keep moving. He couldn’t stay there. He couldn’t. Not anymore.

His jacket was thin and didn’t block out the cold night wind that whipped into him, but it was better than nothing. He pulled his hat on, and dragged it down over his ears, keeping his head down. He didn’t have much time if he wanted to get a bus ticket before his bruises really set in. He needed to move. He walked up to the counter and bought the ticket to the farthest away city that he could afford, and still have enough money for food. 

The woman at the window asked him how old he was, after a moment’s hesitation. He told her he was nineteen. She’d nodded. Hadn’t asked to see an ID. Maybe she saw the blood on his split lip. Maybe she took pity on some poor roughed up kid who clearly just needed a bus pass. Or maybe she didn’t care at all, and was simply doing her job, not really thinking about anything, just going through the motions.

He liked to think she’d cared a bit. 

His knees almost buckled underneath him as he got on the bus. He went to the back, and secured himself a window seat. He leaned back, his eyelids drooping. The ceiling of the bus was covered in little dots, small enough to look like an actual pattern. He pulled a pen out of his bag, and wrote, on the back of his hand, large enough for her to see it, _“I’m safe.”_

And he was. For now, at least. 

The bus rumbled to life, and he tried not to think about all the unknowns he had to deal with, now. He’d left. He was on the run. He was a runaway. He had $650 or so in his bag, and the clothes on his back, and that was it. He really should have thought this through. He glanced back to his arm. 

A heavy purple bruise was forming under the words. Keefe winced, and looked away from it. Images flashed behind his eyes, and pain flickered through him, his heart thudding. He shut it out as best he could, the world flying by outside the window.

What would his father do when he saw that Keefe was gone? Had he already noticed?

Keefe took out his phone and glanced through its notifications. 

Nothing from anyone. His father hadn’t noticed. It was eleven, almost. He’d caught the last bus.

His dad had probably found himself a drink or three. 

Keefe was never going back.

The next two days were the long bus trip to whatever city he’d picked. He couldn’t even remember the name. The bus stopped, randomly, once, and for about three hours, and he overheard the bus driver yammering on on the phone with a repairman. Other than that, the journey went smoothly.

It passed in a blur of McDonald’s two-for-one specials, three-million ignored texts from his father, and a thousand writings to his soulmate, which he never washed off. He didn’t need to, anymore. He was free. His heart was growing wings. He tucked his greasy blonde hair under his hat, ignoring how bad it looked. He hadn’t showered in days, now. He didn’t need to look in a mirror to know how bad he looked. 

He had, but he hadn’t needed to. 

_“You almost off the bus?”_ She asked, then. 

_“It’s the last day. I’ll be off by noon.”_

Moment of silence passed. 

_“Where are you going to go?”_

_“I don’t know. Somewhere low-rent, I guess.”_

_“Be safe,”_ she wrote, _“You mean so much to me, I can’t lose you.”_

 _“Nah,”_ he grinned as he wrote, _“You’re stuck with me, Babe.”_

He wondered why it took her so long to respond. But she did. _“Sucks to be me, huh?”_ A little winky face appeared at the end. _“Just kidding._ ”

 _“I know.”_ On a whim, he drew a smiley face at the end.

Yep. He was back to slipping down a wall, right into a puddle of too-strong feelings for his soulmate. They were probably platonic soulmates, he told himself. There was no way that she could like him. What was he thinking? He didn't even like her. Probably. You couldn’t like someone you’d never met, right?

That’s not how that worked. 

She started drawing on his arm, and he cursed himself. Nope. That was totally how it worked. He was head over heels for a sixteen year old girl on the other side of the ink on his arm. 

He was so screwed.

But he kept talking. Sliding, further and further, down the tunnel that was falling for someone.

He got off the bus in the city, glancing about, his eyes glimmering in the light.

The air was cold in the morning light, the brand new early April leaves sparkling on the trees that littered the streets. Keefe had always wondered how trees could grow in the middle of a polluted city. Apparently they were really resilient. 

He found a bookstore on the corner of two busy streets and ducked inside. There was a coffee shop to the side of the building, and after drinking in the thick scent of lattes and overpriced baked goods, he tucked himself into a booth and counted out his money. He had about $621 left. 

Not too bad, he decided. He scooped it back into his wallet, and left, wandering absently through the bookstore as he went. His eyes traced the flower a woman had on her face, and he watched as a boy’s ring finger band glimmered with emotions that weren’t his own. 

Someone had bruises on their face that looked like they should have been in a hospital bed, but were still standing. Honestly, Keefe probably looked like that himself. He found a bathroom, and stared at his face in the mirror. It wasn’t as bad as he’d expected. 

Wasn’t great, either, but it could probably have been worse. His fingers gently traced the outline of what appeared to be a muddled fistprint. His lip was cracked, and had started to heal over, but it had a pretty bad scab. Shivers fought down his spine as he remembered exactly how it had felt to receive every injury.

He left the bathroom, the bookstore, the street, and wandered aimlessly on the streets, looking for anything, something to do. It was nearly dark, and he had nowhere to stay. 

Hotels were too expensive. Apartments required thinking and planning. Begging for a place to stay was risky, and probably would result in worse injuries than he already had. He didn’t have many options. 

Benches in front of the library were open. 

He claimed one, staring at the world, tiredly, waiting to be challenged. No one bothered him.

Slowly, his shoulders relaxed, and his jaw unclenched. He realized that somehow, impossibly, he felt more safe on a bench in the city as the sun was setting than he had in his own room, in his own house. 

It didn’t get quiet in the city, not even in the middle of the night, and it didn’t get very dark, either. The sodium colored lights weren’t very comforting light to sleep under, but he did, anyway. Or, tried to. The sound of cars going too fast, the crash of glass on the pavement, the sound of wild laughter set him on edge. Memories flickered through his mind, far too much. It wasn’t pleasant. 

But it was still so much better than usual. He wished he’d been there forever, used to the business and the rush and the light, willing enough to sleep there, without a care in the world.

He was safer here than he’d ever been before in his life.

Morning came, eventually, and he made use of the public bathroom in the library. Despite himself, he grinned at his reflection, as he studied his bruised face. His eyes had a light in them. That was new. He brushed his teeth, washed his face, and then headed out to the sharp morning sunlight, heading for the nearest McDonald’s. 

He needed an Egg McMuffin. Like, twenty minutes ago. From there, he went to a store, and bought some shampoo. And conditioner. His hair needed it. It had been much too long, and one too many nights of sleeping on the streets for his lustrous locks. And he bought a thing of apples, which had looked better to him than anything else in the entire store, and surprisingly only cost him six dollars. He could make them last. He walked along the streets of the city, munching on one of ten apples, the one most near growing squishy, and pulled out his phone. It was still mostly charged, from the bus ride. They’d had free charging stations. He scanned the messages from his father, briefly, which had grown more heated in the past four hours, and noticed that his boss had sent him a message saying that his father had quit his job for him. 

He sent a text back to his boss apologizing, but saying he wasn’t going to come back. _“Something came up. Really serious. I’m sorry.”_

His boss didn’t respond. Keefe hadn’t really expected them to. He was probably sooooooo fired.

He couldn’t find enough caring in his heart to deal with that. Work had been work. It was work. He hadn’t had a ton of friends there. He’d kinda been in a spiral of “oh my gosh wow my life is a spiral of mental health issues and my dad only hitting me once on a good week, who has time for friendship when your life is falling apart?” Now, he could be different. He was free. He could get a job, he could keep the job, he could make friends. His entire life was open, undetermined, unshackled, wide as the big blue sky that the buildings around him were trying to poke holes in. 

He took off his hat, and tucked his mussed hair behind his ears, glancing up at the sky. The sunlight and blue burned his eyes in a good way. 

And then he was back on the streets. He needed to find a real place to crash, a real place to live. He meandered down quieter streets, looking for signs that pointed to places for lease. There weren’t many. 

He found a homeless shelter and decided it was worth a shot. Keefe wound up talking to one of the adults in charge, and was directed to a teen homeless shelter fifteen minute’s walk from there. “It’ll be safer for you,” The man, Emery, said, scratching at his chin, “You’re, what, sixteen? Seventeen? We get a lot of people from a lot of walks of life. You’re gonna be better off in a shelter devoted to kids.”

He thanked the man, and set out.

He found the place, and stared at it,looking at the flock of teenagers chatting around the doors. Lots of them had dirt dashed across their faces, or bruises that trailed up their arms, or a glint in their eye that meant survival. Others had vacant, dead looks in their eyes, but smiles that said they were trying not to show it.

Lots of kids. Down on their luck. Just like him.

Some of the people there were volunteers. He could tell because the smiles reached their eyes, or their coats weren’t dirty.

His coat had to reek. He wondered if they had washing machines he could use.

He walked up to the door, and was just about to turn the handle when he felt a familiar hand wrap around his arm, tight, to the point of bruising. “You’re coming home, right this instant.”

Keefe’s whole body flinched, sharp and hard, to the terrible words, and his eyes jerked to his father’s face. _No._

“You’re heading home, and you’re taking those blasted tests you missed, and washing off those damn words, and you’re going to be better.”

The voice grew louder, assaulting Keefe’s senses, making him want to run. The hand on his arm gripped him tighter, and jerked him towards a car. His father’s car. 

He was going to take him home.

Keefe’s words came to life, and his muscles felt a break in their terrified stillness. “No,” he said, pulling his father to a stop, grinding his heels into the cement. “You can’t make me do anything.”

“I,” the man sneered, “am your father, you obey me. You’re coming home right this instant.”

“No,” Keefe snarled back, trying to pull away. “I’m not. You can’t make me.”

His father jerked him, decently hard, and threw him off his balance. Keefe stumbled forward, barely keeping himself from crashing to the ground. “You’re coming with me quietly, or I’ll drag you, kicking and screaming.”

Keefe glanced around, wildly, looking for anyone who would notice, or see, but they all were caught up in their own thing, doing their own stuff, and Keefe was almost to the car.

His father stumbled, slightly, when Keefe pulled back, and he used that as an opportunity to jerk away. 

His feet pounded into the pavement as he made a sharp turn and ducked into an alleyway. His breath rasped in his chest, and he dragged his hands through his hair.

Ten seconds later, thick, awful, heavy arms slammed him into the wall, and he choked on a cry. His back erupted in jabbing pain, and he tried to get his breath back. “You’re coming home with me,” Heavy breathing broke through the terrifyingly low words, “Or you’re going to regret it.”

Suddenly, a flash of golden hair was in between him and his father, and a girl, about a head and a half shorter than Keefe, shoved his father back, away from him, hard. “Who the hell do you think you are!” Her voice was a scream, and it echoed in Keefe’s ears. “Get away from him!”

“He is my son!”

“I don’t care!” Her voice got louder, and heads turned towards them, “You have no right to treat anyone that way, let alone your son! You’re his father, you’re supposed to protect him!”

People were staring, but the blonde girl didn’t seem to care, and jabbed her finger in his dad’s face, making him take an unconscious step back, “Walk away right now, or I’ll call the cops and tell them exactly what me and everyone else on this dratted street has had the chance to see! You, hurting your kid!”

“It’s not hurting him it’s--” His father tried to reason, and Keefe shut his eyes to the arguments of how it wasn’t actually hurting him and how it was for his own good, and how he deserved everythin--

“Yes, it is! You literally just shoved this kid into an alley up against some bricks after trying to drag him into a car against his own will, and you have the gall to pretend like it didn’t hurt? Get away from him!” She’d pushed him into the street with her presence, anger pulsing through her words, “Leave, or you’ll have charges of child abuse on your hands, oh that will look spectacular on your rep sheet, I think, and a first class spot in a holding cell.”

People were whispering, pointing, staring, and Keefe felt their eyes like blades in his back, but then he realized the glares weren’t focused on him. They were focused on his father. 

His father didn’t say anything, just stared.

“Make up your mind,” she snarled, anger radiating through her voice like the rumble of thunder in a storm, “Now.”

She crossed her arms, and her body was a solid chunk of occupied space between him and his father. His body was still shoved up against the brick, he hadn’t had a chance to move, but this person, whoever she was, was making sure he didn’t have to. She was flushing his father away, cornering, glaring, and manipulating him with the situation she was forcing him into, and making it impossible for him to do anything. The tiny blonde sprite of fierce energy glared at the man until he backed far away enough, and then turned tail and ran.

Keefe sagged against the wall, his arm clenching around his middle, and his eyes refusing to shut until his father was out of sight.

The girl turned to him, her eyes instantly impossibly and infinitely more soft. “Are you alright?”

He nodded, dragging his hands up through his hair. His breath shuddered in his chest.

“Hey,” she said, gently, “Let’s get out of here, huh?”

They started walking back in silence, as various spectators, noticing that the ruckus and drama was over, shrugged and went back to their business, no doubt having a new story to tell that night at dinner. He expected nothing more to be said, and he couldn’t find anything other than an awful string of gratitude to piece together in his half-panicking mind, but then the girl spoke, her voice extremely gentle, “I’m sorry about that, I know people yelling doesn’t make anything easier.”

He shook his head, fiercely. “You’re… you’re good. Thanks, really. He was going to make me go back with him and I--”

“I get it,” the girl smiled at him, somehow blindingly and gently at the same time. “And I wouldn’t have jumped in if he hadn’t been about to--” She sucked in a sharp breath. “I’ve been on edge for a while about people beating up their kids. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have taken it out on your dad.”

He chuckled, lightly, “Hey, he deserved it.”

Her shoulders relaxed slightly, and they walked into the shelter together. “Hey, Mum,” She said, brightly, to the woman behind the desk. “This kid needs a room.”

The woman smiled at him, brightly, and he caught a glimpse of her name tag. _Edaline._

“What’s your name, Dear?” she asked, so kindly it made Keefe’s bones sing, just a little bit.

“Um. It’s Keefe. Keefe Sencen.”

“Alright, what brings you here?”

He fidgeted. “I ran away from home.”

The woman nodded, her eyes taking on genuine concern. “Why?”

Keefe flinched. “My, uh. My Dad. He. Um…” And then he pointed at the bruises on his cheek, hoping that answered it. 

Edaline scanned him. “Are you worried about anyone coming after you?”

He nodded, fiercely. “My dad, he...He found me, somehow, tried to take me back, just now.”

Edaline looked up, sharply, glancing at her blonde daughter. “What?”

“Yeah, this girl kinda...um... Chased him off?”

The girl broke in, her voice taking on a sharp quality, “I called him out for trying to beat his son up in an alley and then threatened him with the police force.”

“Good heavens,” the woman said, looking worried. “Alright, we can work on getting you a restraining order against him. It’ll take a bit of work, but your safety is the most important thing, alright?”

Keefe nodded. The woman smiled. “Sophie? Why don’t you take him up to room 137, get him settled, all that?”

The girl, Sophie, he supposed, nodded, brightly, and took the key from her mother’s outstretched hand. “Let’s go.”

The girl started talking about rules as they walked up the steps, something about how the doors locked automatically at eleven, and how the meals were served twice a day. “I don’t need the meals,” He broke in, “I’ve got money.”

She looked at him, clearly curious. “How much?”

He shrugged. “Not enough for a room, anywhere.”

She nodded. “I gotcha. You should probably save your cash, though. Take advantage of the meals and stuff. Anyway, the bathrooms are that-a-ways, and--” She kept talking, eventually wound up on a tangent of drugs and illegal substances and how it was a two-strike-you’re-out deal kind of thing, where if they caught you with that kind of crap twice, they’d send you off to government rehab.

“Alright, here’s your room. 137. Lovely view,” She opened the door, and waved her arms about. “Voila. The other bed is currently unoccupied, but you might get another kid by tonight. It all depends.”

He nodded, and took off his jacket, smiling at her. “Thanks,” he said.

She didn’t say anything, but stared at his arm, the one covered in the writings. “What are those,” she whispered, softly.

He bit his lip, fighting a terrified, _“None of your business.”_ He had no reason to fear her. Right? He scratched the back of his neck. “Oh, heh, um, those are from my soulmate. Y’know? That whole bond thing. Um, ours is the one where you can see what they write on their skin.”

She swallowed, sharply. “Um. What’s their name?”

He shrugged. “Hell if I know. We haven’t met yet. It’s a girl though. She’s pretty amazing. She was actually the one who told me to run.”

Sophie made a choked noise, and before he could ask her what was wrong, she dashed out of the room.

Startled, and feeling oddly responsible for her, despite having known her for roughly half an hour, he followed her. He saw her dash around and away from several places, and eventually found her sitting on the stairs, her legs clutched to her chest, eyes so wide he thought her eyelids would crack around the edges. “Are… are you alright?” He asked, after a moment. He really didn’t know what he could do. But he could try.

She shook her head, sharply. “Your favorite treat is E.L. Fudge Cookies.”

He stared at her.

“Your favorite color is yellow.”

This was getting creepy. How did she know all of these things?

“You wanted Notebooks for Christmas.”

What was going on?

“You’re a he.” Her brown eyes sparkled, and flecks of gold in them lit up, “Your favorite music artist is Shawn Mendez. Your favorite “real” artist is Vincent Van Gogh. Your mom left when you were ten. You were in danger all the time. You took a bus to the--this city. The ride took you two days. Your biggest irrational fear is being buried alive.”

He gaped.

“Your eyes are blue,” She considered him for a moment, looking straight into his face. “You didn’t say that they were _ice_ blue.”

That’s when it all clicked, like a key sliding into a lock, a piece being put back into a puzzle. He didn’t trust his voice. He didn’t know what to say. What was he supposed to do? “What,” He breathed.

She pulled up the sleeve of her long sleeve shirt, and held her arm out to him.

His own handwriting glimmered in front of his eyes. Her drawings that had been scattered across his arms, and his over hers.

She smiled at him, slightly, worriedly, tentatively. Like she didn’t know what he was going to say. 

He didn’t know what he was going to say. He gaped. 

She brushed her hair out of her face, and his eyes watched the hand that had written him through so much, that had drawn all those markings, and that was right there, right in front of him. 

“It’s you,” he said.

She nodded, slightly.

“Holy crap,” He said, again, “It’s _you.”_

And he pulled her into his arms. 

\------------------------------------------------------

The thing about soulmates, is that there’s nothing really clear-cut, set out answer to the good old fashioned google search of “soulmate found what to do”.

All they are is variables, discrepancies, missing chunks. All you have is the idea that they’re either your platonic soulmate, your romantic soulmate, or you’re both something different to each other.

Sophie had never thought too much about it, too enamoured with the idea of even having a soulmate to begin with to even start to wonder about platonic or romantic or even competitive, although those were crazy rare. 

But, as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, she had realized something. Something quiet. Flickering, but strong enough to set the world on fire if given the chance. She found it in the glint in his eyes when he smiled at her, the way his hands clenched and unclenched nervously when he didn’t know what to do. Yep. She was falling in love with him. 

There were probably worse things one could do, she decided, that night, when she realized just how romantic her love towards him was. It was like walking into a hot shower, where the muscles that have been aching so long actually start to feel alright. Yeah. He was her romantic soulmate.

Her hand tightened in his, the bright blue of the autumn sunset sky flickering above them like an ocean awash in the remnants of golden afternoon light, and she smiled at him. 

It had taken four months to get there, together, walking through the park behind her house, hand in hand, content to just be themselves together. 

Four months was a long time, in Sophie’s opinion. It had felt like years, but those years had gone by like seconds, but every second had felt like a year. Her parents had opened their doors to him almost seconds after finding out he was her soulmate, and Keefe had, tentatively, taken them up on it. Sophie couldn’t blame him. Their house wasn’t big, and they only had one extra room. It had been the guest room. Beige and plain, lacking personality. That was Keefe’s room, now. It had pictures taped up on the walls, torn pages of notebooks, pens and paint all over the desk, and more clothes than Sophie ever would have wanted her parents to buy her. They had stumbled across the fact that he had only two outfits at some point and there had been a flurry to procure him some more. Four months later, he wasn’t gone. 

Every day was like waking up in a dream, stumbling downstairs in a pre-coffee haze to see a blond boy at their kitchen table, smiling, joking, smirking, reading, or drawing. He was so beautiful. 

She couldn’t quite believe she had the rest of her life to spend with him. 

It hadn’t been easy, and there were bad days. Lots of bad days, actually. He fought the idea of therapy, under some excuse of being unable to pay her parents back, and he couldn’t quite see himself the way she saw him. He only saw the bad pieces. He only saw the fears and the pain and the jabby, broken bits. He only saw the dark lines under his eyes and his inability to believe it when her father told him he’d done well on something. 

“Y’know,” She said, carefully, as they stared up at the sky, “I really do love you.”

He turned his ice blue eyes to meet hers, staring. “Yeah?”

She nodded, fiercely. “Yep.”

A chuckle wormed its way out of his throat. “Sorry,” He mumbled, after a bit, “Can’t be very fun.”

She shook her head, hard. “There’s no one else I’d rather be loving, Keefe.”

“You can’t really mean that,” her eyes were snagged on his hand as it dragged through his messy blond hair. “I’m a mess.”

“I know,” She smiled at him, then. “I told you we could be messy together.”

“You didn’t know how messy my mess was.”

“And you didn’t know about mine,” She picked grass by the handful, “But I don’t think it really mattered. I loved you for you. And you’re still you. So I still love you. I can’t not.”

A tiny grin flickered on his lips. Then he stopped, staring at her for a long moment. “We’re romantic soulmates,” He blurted, his words tumbling out of his mouth like a wall holding them back had finally cracked and broken. 

Sophie’s eyes widened, sharply. Apparently now was the time to do this.

“Or at least, you’re my romantic soulmate, you don’t have to be mine, I know sometimes it’s funny like that, and I know I sure as hell don’t deserve you, and I know we’re both two meaningless shouts in the void and that oblivion is inevitable and that we’re all doomed and that there will come a day when all our labors have been turned to dust and I know the sun will--”

Sophie couldn’t stand it anymore. She moved forward, instantly, carefully cupping his face in her hands, and effectively shut him up. He gaped at her, watching as she neared him.

She gazed firmly into his eyes. “I think I’ve known you were my romantic soulmate since you wrote that first line on my arm,” she stated, “There was no way I could feel like this, otherwise.”

He blinked, rapidly.

And then he leaned forward, just slightly, and whispered, “You better kiss me before I lose m--”

She never knew what he was going to lose, because her lips crashed into his, and they were two halves fitting back together.

Two pieces becoming whole.

Sophie Foster had a soulmate.

And now, he was kissing her.

**Author's Note:**

> *squeaky noise* 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed reading as much as I enjoyed writing!
> 
> I'd like to also point out something, that as much as I love soulmate aus, I think this world too often presses forward. You do not have a soulmate. You are completely whole, all on your lonesome. You can want a soulmate, but they are not going to be a half of you that is missing, like in this story. Your soulmate will be someone who compliments you, and who you are willing to spend the rest of your life talking to, being with, and living with, sharing everything. If you never find that person, that is A-OK. You do not need to find a soulmate to be happy. You are whole and complete all by yourself, and you aren't missing any pieces.
> 
> I'd also like to credit the three songs mentioned in this story, which are _I'm Tired, You're Lonely,_ by Liza Anne, _Dark Paradise,_ by Lana Del Rey, and _Love Me Wrong,_ by Isak Danielson. I thoroughly reccomend you check all three out, and enjoy them as much as I have. 
> 
> Feel free to scream at me in the comments! I love to read what you think!


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